


Boarst, Bullets, and Bandages

by IrreWilderer



Series: “L’habit ne fait pas le moine” [3]
Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: Dom max, Enemy-Lovers to Friends, F/M, Oral, Orgasm Denial, Sex Toys, Voyeurism, more squabbling than usual, smut is in the second chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 08:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21370915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrreWilderer/pseuds/IrreWilderer
Summary: Captain Archie's pacifism has a bee in the vicar's bonnet.
Relationships: The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto, The Captain/Vicar Maximillian DeSoto
Series: “L’habit ne fait pas le moine” [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540777
Comments: 11
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter 1

For being a free port faring on self-sufficiency, the Groundbreaker moved surprisingly sluggard. There was so much lounging about: Mardets and SubLight employees keeping walls up with their lackadaisical leaning on ‘em; Stevedores on some sort of mass break, cigarettes shared amongst.

It had Archie down-right jubilating. ‘Slow’, after all, were the ship’s prerogative. Strolling the promenade, rucksack goodies-stuffed and a parcel in her arms, she deemed this sleepy freedom a riotous anarchy. The rest of the rudding galaxy seemed intent to run themselves dead on their feet, meanwhile folk here were putting them up. The munitions merchant that took forty meandering minutes just to suss whether they could fill her order? A hell-fired hero.

To be fair, though, it **was **quite the order. Especially for such a small-potatoes customer, which, apparently, she was. But the Unreliable was slated for adventure, and adventure in these Law-forgotten lands required bullets. And boarst, and bandages, and beer. So the ship’s captain was stocking up.

“Have you invited any Back Bay deadbeats on board today?” queried a derisive voice at her right. “Or have you deemed filling their pockets with our hard-earned bits to be thoroughly sufficient?”

In light of their as-per-usual locking of horns (and today it was bad), Archie was stupefied to see Vicar Max stirring up conversation.

“Just stocking for Roseway,” the woman explained as he matched her stride. “If they’re plenty with varmints—which seems the situation—we’re going to need all the lead we can lug.”

“I see.” _ And here comes the punchline. _“Remember, captain: ‘we’ implies yourself, as well." Max pretended at being contemplative. "You know, it appears an awful waste of ammunition and money. Seeing as you’d rather cower behind tall objects than fight beside your crew.”

Ah, that wit. Sharp as a fucking dagger.

Archie considered Parvati. Bedding in the medbay; being seen to for a broken arm and sprained ribs by strangers, sawbones though they were. She smiled in good humor, naturally, but there were shadows at her eyes: those of pain; of exhaustion.

Leading her intrepid troop to the Back Bays, Captain Archie Quaice had counted on trade for procuring the parts required to spruce-up the Groundbreaker’s radiator array. Unfortunately, those squatting in the area—kinged by the crass Mister MacRedd—weren’t keen on keeping civil. It simmered to a dustup which had the violence-averse Archie mostly hiding in a corner.

Though they came out the living, the Unreliable’s very reliable grease-monkey was not unscathed. She was, in fact, extremely scathed.

“Parvati’s not complaining,” shrugged Archie. “She’s got Junlei playin’ nurse.”

Max just rolled his eyes. “Well, there’s _ that _ mystery solved. Next time we’re in a firefight, I’ll have no need to worry over whether or not you have my back because **apparently **I’ll have Captain Tennyson’s bedside manner to fucking look forward to.”

_ ‘I’ll try harder, vicar,’ _nearly fell off her tongue, but it didn’t. Archie still couldn’t manage malefaction towards her nonviolent leanings. Parvati’s condition was grievous, but so was snuffing a life. And if Max wanted to vent, he was welcome to it.

Marching on, the captain was no longer shopping to dropping among the market stalls. Instead, she was browsing through the vicar’s mood, trying to see how much his goodwill would cost. It was days passed since they’d been pinned down by MacRedd’s men. And, in those days, Max had been roving like a riled raptidon. Captain Quaice didn’t see his forgiveness coming particularly cheap.

As they walked, however, the man nodded towards the wrapped package kept close to her chest, his expression quieting to affable. “What is that you’re carrying?” The casual lip-flapping seemed olive-branched in intent, so Archie took the bait.

“_'The Big Book of Little Parts’_,” she illuminated. “It’s an owner’s catalog for screws and bolts and the like. Lots of pictures.”

Max’s raised brow approved. “Sounds like something Miss Holcomb would enjoy. Was it purchased with her in mind?”

Pretending to hear something gone envy-green, Archie teased. “I nabbed a little souvenir for you, too. But, see”—she leered earnestly—”we’re spattin’, and if I gave it to you now, it’d only seem like bribery.”

“Miss Holcomb’s gift has no hidden agenda.”

Archie hadn’t expected the subtlety to be lost on him. “She needs cheering, vicar—she’s on the mend. But you and I are in a row. So it’s different. Don’t want to be confounding your opinion with presents, now. You’re allowed to spit your tacks.”

His smooth-as-glass expression glinted with sharper edges, while his tone was taut as his much-loved emblematic rubber band ‘bout to put them back where they belonged: altercating. “I did not realize I could be bought so easily. How interesting. The wounds **I** sustained must be figments of my extremely _ impressionable _mind, then.”

His betrayed tone clapped echoes through her as he stalked off. The vicar was still vexed; chapfallen that his captain seemed a coward according to his ideas about the word.

It was easy, however, to place his sour grapes on the back shelf as Archie sought Parvati, gift in hand and that hand offering. And Max’s bad mood was _ particularly _painless to put off as the mending mechanic squealed praises of her captain’s generosity.

Returned to the quiet ship, her booty-laden rucksack abandoned in her bunk, Archie insinuated herself into a bottle of Spectrum Vodka at the kitchen’s table.

She poured, she swallowed; she winced. Parvati’s easy forgiveness colluded with Archie’s disfavor towards violence while she sipped her awful drink. This conspiring of sentiments built-up defensives about her decision to avoid shooting things to shit—even the bad guys. Life was **hard ** here. People were _ coerced _to dastardly measures. Even marauders deserved a smidge of pity. How could she be expected to send them to the worms so easily?

Her cogitating left her lacking the guilt which Max had saddled her with. More importantly, it had her certain that, the next time that darned vicar set-upon the topic, they would have some very specific words.

As it happened, the instance for that particular parley came a might quick. Vodka bottle abandoned, Archie plodded to her quarters and spied Max hovering about her purchases which were littering her bed. One box in particular had his attention: a small thing, with a nondescript cover, and it sat in his hand, seeping mystery.

“Snoopin’, vicar?”

Looking up at her leaning in the doorway, he watched her like one guards against an unfamiliar, but unassuming, animal.

“If I’d thought you would mind?” he posed rhetorically. “Certainly. However, something tells me you apply to others your own flexible definition of property rights.”

Flashing a grin, Archie shrugged. “Finders keepers—am I right?” Pushing off the door frame and ambling over, she pointed to what he was holding. “That, though. That one _ definitely _ain’t yours.”

“Oh?” Immediately dislodging the lid, Max took up its contents.

A small, sleek handle—which was half the size of his palm—tapered to a malleable neck topped by a sonic-powered head no bigger than a thumbnail. According to the manufacturer, the mini, portable ‘personal massager’ with vibrating tip guaranteed to get intrepid travelers ‘seeing stars’, or ‘where they needed to go’, and left Max eliciting a small, thoughtful, “ah,” before offering her A Look.

Archie shrugged. “Figured on tending to my own needs a while.” When he didn’t offer its return, Archie frowned. “You wouldn’t deny a girl her come-uppin’s, would you, vicar? You aren’t a cruel man.”

“I’m only hurt you didn’t think to give ** _me _ **a get-well gift, as well,” Max stated with typical, smirk-covered sardonicism, still keeping the toy in hand.

Archie laughed. After these many days of egg-shell stepping, it’d seemed his sarcastic spite had replaced outright hostility, signalling recovered normalcy. For which she was thankful. However, his true forgiveness appeared to come in the form of Max’s groping at his clothing and beginning to undress, which took the captain by surprise.

Archie’s stomach swirled immediately. Her knees got a bitty-bit weak.

_ Boy, _ ** _howdy_**.

Those hands: wide, with calloused palms, accented by long, thick fingers just this side of graceful. Clean nails, good shoulders; a healthsome trim to his stomach. By the time those aforementioned, comely mitts had managed the cossack and collar-shirt over Max’s head, Archie had ravaged a whole cigarette.

“Nothing but bobbery between us for days, and you decide to get naked.” Whistling approvingly, butting out the smoke in an ashtray, Archie winked. “Let us never make amends, vicar.”

Ogling the man dressed down to an undershirt tucked in slacks, Archie nibbled her lip. For an older man, there was still so much litheness in those capable, pin-her-to-the-bed, toss-her-ankles-by-her-ears limbs. And the years were visible, too. Faded freckles, fair hair; old scars and age lines down his arms’ length. Alongside the build to bear him through a fist-fight, it got Archie positively riled, and she swallowed some starved sighs, anticipating the saporous rest.

And then, when met with the rest—when met with the sight of Max’s long, bare torso smattered with the slightest chest hair—breath failed her altogether. Because history came back with a sucker-punch.

“Perhaps now you’ll understand why I also deserve some measure of compensation.”

She forgot about the fetching facade; the captivating man behind the carping comment. Stealing closer, all Archie could see was the monstrous, mottled smears of angry, purpled bruising sprawling about his ribs, its edges giving way to sick yellows and weird greens, painting ugly, chromatic pain across his skin.

Close enough to touch, Archie stared, gobsmacked. She spotted blues, too; every colour of agony flashed on flesh which was raised, puffy, and abraded. It looked _ awful_.

Seemed Parvati wasn’t the only one who’d taken a beating in the Back Bays.

No wonder Max was so steamed.

Archie sighed hard, a hand rubbing over her eyes. “I fucking hate this.”

Max wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Excuse me?”

Marching to her desk, Archie snatched up an inhalant bottle. “This. All of this.” Sticking the nozzle up her nose, she gave it a spritz, waiting for the harder emotional edges to burnish out. “Back on Earth… _ phft. _” Her turmoil tilted towards apathy as she dreamily repeated, “on Earth,” and the memories warmed her mind.

Looking at the vicar, Archie explained.

“Earth was dirty; cramped. Leastways it was where I lived. People on top of people; never heard silence but for sleeping. Also when you were daisy-pushing, I expect. But at least we didn’t have this.” She nodded at his chest; at his war wounds. “People playing at outlaws; shooting folk just trying for a good turn.”

“Not that you knew of, anyways,” insisted Max.

“Yeah. Not that I knew of. But I _ knew_.” Archie squared her shoulders defiantly. “I was on the other side. Part time. I worked with a man from a company pharmacy. Back-of-house: he had access to everything. He dropped the drugs, and I got it to buyers. People on the street; workers—reliable, _ honest _workers—just needing a little extra to weather the week.”

Max’s eyes rounded, impressed. “And were you not pursued by company authorities?”

“Sure,” Archie answered hesitatingly. “I reckon I was, yeah. But I never got this!” Again, she pointed at his bodily grief like it was a lesson on colony life.

Max’s simper was a smug one. “That is because you were never caught,” he pointed out. 

Wondering where the hell her cigarette had set down roots, Archie searched for a new one on her cluttered desk.

A moment passed; a long minute in which Max’s perception of her appeared to colour in a bit; gain some details.

“Is this why you signed onto the Hope—your criminal affiliations? A wish to, perhaps, escape them?”

“No. What I wanted was…” Archie’s jaw tightened. “What I wanted was something different than what I had.” 

Better than her smokes, the woman spotted a bottle of Hardineram Elixir, and pumped a few oily droplets upon her tongue. Bitter, sharp; smallest hint of rancid citrus. Then there came stillness of mind, and a hardening of her shell, and a shedding of bad vibes.

Turning her mood around as much as her body, Archie faced the vicar, a dirty, little smile smearing her lips. Dwelling on this bunkum was a sad, misuse of being, so she weren’t going to waste the time.

“It strikes me,” she teased, “that if you want your present, there’s no real harm in it. That hurt of yours _ does _warrant a little something. ”

Lip pinched between teeth for that extra lascivious effect, Archie strutted to the bed, pulled from her bag a small, leather-bound book (featuring real paper pages ‘n all), and… she hesitated. It was a waiting moment like a baited breath. There was no telling just how cooled the vicar’s volcanic disposition had truly come. 

“You,” Archie insisted, so much honesty in her eyes, and those eyes blessed by the loveliness of his body, “are a beautiful man, Maximillian.”

It seemed his fury was at rest.

Brow slanting, the vicar fell to lecturing around the usual smug smirk. “Flattery will get you nowhere, captain. As we both know, the Universal Equation cannot be swayed by simple words.”

“Uh-huh.” Snorting, Archie was down-right serendipitous to see him forgetting their tiff. “So. Trade? One book for the trembulatin’ fun-maker you’ve got hostage?”

Max shrugged. “That depends on the book. I have an awful lot of them, you know. And I do not wish to appear so susceptible to bribery. However…”

Mirroring his coquettish emphasis, Archie battered her eyes. “‘However’?”

“However, there _ is _ a difference between buying one’s goodwill and working for it.” Max ran his tongue across his teeth. “Would you like to work for my goodwill, Captain Quaice?”

Archie’s heat skipped. “Yes, please.”

Working his belt, Max grabbed her wrist and yanked, shoving her hand down the front of his slacks. Book abandoned in a smack to the metal floor, Archie’s palm was brought to touching the heat of his bulge; to cradling it through the soft, silky fabric of his smalls. Giving an inaugural squeeze, she could cup the whole totality in her hand—but not for long. Max’s cock was stirring, inviting her fingers to explore; to tease; to spoil.

The woman studied the face a mere inches from hers. Curving lips already slack, a very sharp gleam was evident beyond the lust-lazened haze of his eyes.

_ “Well?” _ prompted the vicar, leaning in. “Earn my goodwill.”


	2. Chapter 2

She couldn’t quit from staring at him. As Archie handled Max through his underwear—fondling and massaging his fattening cock—his gaze consumed her with the strength of the sun. Those hazel eyes, studying and seering: they were lined by winkles which, rather than betray his age, only illuminated a life of want which was followed by need and take, his soul ever hungry; his body just as ravenous.

Max’s underwear began to stretch, his growing member struggling against the fabric. Grinding and goading its length, Archie traced the outline of his tip through the thin material, her thumb rubbing big circles on the supple flesh. But, quite quickly, it appeared that Max had met the precipice between strangled pleasure and need; the point where frottage wasn’t near satisfying. The vicar hissed _ “knees”, _ and she complied.

Slacks and underwear down his thighs, hand gripping and lips wrapping, Archie’s mouth bobbed on Max’s cock, slathering it, squeezing it, taking his long shaft a little deeper each time, and it woke a sleepy whirl of passion between her own legs. Subtle but persistent, it was spurred on by ‘_Law, ain’t he handsome?’ _ and _ ‘would you _ ** _look _ ** _ at this tallywacker?’ _, as well as memories of sexual precedent that weren’t nothing to shake a stick at. With his cock shoved down her throat, it was real easy to remember where else it had been.

But, then, distracted, she choked. And she winced. Archie got back into the groove immediately, turning attention to the vicar’s sack. Nuzzling, then tonguing, she sucked in one of his balls with a thick, low pop, pulling so carefully at the delicate weight while she moaned libidinously, lips smacking around it loudly.

Pulling her hair, Max groaned.

With a second, slow pop, Archie released his ball. It caused the previously collected vicar to come to life. Bending down, dislodging his pants, Max left Archie to appreciate his ass as he placed himself on the bed.

Back supported by pillows against the wall and legs slung over the side, one hand motioned that Archie draw near, while the other offered himself a few indulgent strokes of his cock, rough, mean, and hurried. Tucking hair behind her ears, Archie settled before him anew just as Max presented the vibrator.

_ Law, yes. _ Her stomach turbulated with thoughts of just what she’d reduce him to with that wand. However, for the moment, she forwent its use. The woman wanted her mouth on that long, inviting dick for her own sake. Archie found herself loving being on her knees before him, suffused with power yet submitting. Max set the rules—issuing orders; directing her—but she made him grouse helplessly; made his hips jerk as she sucked and lapped in quick, liquid movements. And, now, she was making him crumble around a throaty _ “yes“ _ as she crooked his legs and positioned his feet on the bed’s edge, leaving him presented like a dish to gorge on.

Unsurprisingly, Archie gave an obligatory smack of her lips.

Lube never far from her resting-spot, the woman’s hand scuttled under the bed, returning with a slight-sticky tube. Stealing a peek, she saw his jaw had set; that his eyes were wild; that the man was shivering. Squeezing oil onto her forefinger, Archie dabbed at the vicar’s puckered ring, massaging very slightly, before pressing the powered, whirring vibrator-head against his asshole, wrist starting to stroke his cock.

“_Fucking_ **fuck**! By the Architect, **_fuck_**.”

Max trembled as the vibrator’s humming head played at his entrance. It wasn’t a toy meant for stretching, or filling: its pulsating capabilities were all about torturing and lavishing those sensitive nerves which, when indulged by constant attention, sent a person wailing over the edge.

Max seemed intent on just that. As the small, buzzing head breached him—complemented by the continued pumping to his manhood—the vicar hollered deafening blasphemes, meanwhile grasping the bed’s sheets in a death-grip.

He softened; he loosened; his hole gaped around the small, singing instrument. As he was softly fucked by the whirring head, Max whimpered, inspiring Archie to a speeding, wrist-numbing pace to bring him home. As she beat his precum-slathered digit while rubbing his hole in tandem, the man was hardly able to utter a broken, “your mouth—_please.”_

Archie leaned in. A quick suck and her mouth’s heat had Max fisting her hair, pinning her tight, and immediately spilling seed across the woman’s tongue. He panted; he keened; he took probably too long to release Archie’s hair. Finally when she was allowed leave, she rubbed her smarting, strained jaw.

The ache was worth it, though. Sitting back on the floor, supported by her elbows, she watched the pillow-crowded man melt with afterglow. His legs were tossed askanse, and his softened dick lay asleep on his skinny thigh as Vicar Max basked shamelessly.

Archie swallowed. _ Damn_. She usually only riled to see the vicar’s dog-hungry sights set on her, but it was his satiated air enlivening her now. Was it pride; the knowledge that **she’d **been the one to so knacker his raging spirit?

_ Yeah, _ Archie decided. _ That’s it. _

“Not too poorly a contraption, huh?” She pushed herself up on her palms. “Was down to that or a silencer for my peashooter. Figured I might find a place to cram either, but only one of them would treat me like a lady.”

Forgetting his dignity in the face of post-orgasm fog, Max snorted. Archie blushed at that.

“You _ know _ ”—as she gathered herself to standing, her tone did more talking than her words—”if it isn’t your absolution I’ve earned, I warrant I should at _ least _receive some sort of participation prize. Holiday bonus, mayhaps? I worked pretty hard.”

Max straightened up, his brow jumbled into an expression of dismissiveness. “I’ll be the judge of that.” Pushing off the bed, he winced a bit, then dragged the creaky, metal desk’s chair into the middle of the room. “Pants down. Sit.”

Archie looked at him curiously, and then she looked at him eagerly.

Slacks and smalls shucked, Archie plunked her butt on the cold seat. Noting Max, standing about two feet off, her stomach flipped in a confused somersault.

“Well?” she challenged.

_ “Well?” _ he prompted.

Recognizing his expectations, Archie’s legs spread, and her middle finger went to lazing along her slit. Muscle memory took over as she found the right speed; employed the right pressure. It was back and forth at her pearl, with the occasional brush between her lips, the subtlety of change curling her toes. Her mind clouded quickly; a sweatless heat warmed and pin-pricked her skin.

Max cupped her chin, then, and lifted her face, mixing their stares together. Tracing her bottom lip with his thumb, the vicar pressed it to the seal of her mouth, smiling when Archie readily sucked around it.

“Finally.” His other hand brushed hair from her face. “A proper use for that slanderous mouth.”

The hand on her clit sped to feel him inside her, even if it was only his rough thumb on her tongue. Thanks to the arousal awakened when on her knees, Archie’s arms and legs were soon taken by that sought-for, heavy weightlessness as her orgasm started to rouse, desires so close to satisfying.

Satisfaction turned to senseless misery, however. Without warning, Max extracted his slicked thumb, and, nudging her hand away, pressed the roaring vibrator to her clit.

_ “Shit!” _

Clutching the chair, Archie shoulders jolted and her thighs quaked. The pulsing was apparently set to “total abuse” because she could hardly stand it. The sensation was constant; an endless kneading; a ceaseless barrage of perfectly-pressured stroking, which, in two seconds, was about to send Archie crashing in a sopping, devastated mess.

_ “Fuck—me!” _

Max yanked the hair at her crown, and took the vibrator away. The swelling orgasm silenced. 

“Vicar—!”

“Not until I say.”

Vicar Max set into a brutal cycle. Archie would have allowed herself to cum if only she could, but the man retracted the palm-cradled wand every time her breath hitched a certain way, or her thighs tensed, or she flashed him a pathetic look, the need for orgasm absolutely paramount. She was soaking; she was numb; nothing was left of her but the pounding of her cunt as Max denied her again, again; again...

“Please, _ please,_ **please**, Max!”

Knowing—knowing that this was the only way her agony would stop; knowing that she needed **him** —kept her stuck in her seat, knuckles gone white as she gripped it. She was sore all over; she ached. The wash of orgasm whirled towards Archie again, burning in her legs; filling her belly. She locked eyes with the man towering over her—the man who was holding the humming vibrator to her with such indifference—and she begged from behind tear-starry eyes that he please, _ please_, just please for the love of....

“Vicar, I…”

_"Now."_

Head flung back, wailing at the ceiling, it happened. Archie’s eyes rolled as she was consumed. Wholly; wantonly: shuddering in the chair as Max forced her to cum as long as possible, Archie wallowed in the thrumming, thrilling of her body, but she _ felt _nothing. ‘Felt’ was too cerebral—too contemplating—and her brain was utterly blank in her orgasm. She didn’t have a name; she didn’t have thoughts, or the future. She (whoever that was) only had the convulsing completion of her body—and then she had the floor as she fell on it.

“_Fucking_ **fuck**, Max.” 

Shivering with the strangest cold she’d ever known, Archie was helped up by the vicar, who then guided her to the bed.

Two minutes later, she had a smoke stuck in her mouth, Max was dressing himself, and her room seemed unprecedentedly quiet.

“I don’t think I like that thing,” Archie said of the vibrator.

Max chuckled, taking the cigarette she was holding out to him. With a long puff, he returned it, continuing to right his collar.

Clothed and coiffed (he corrected his hair in the mirror), the vicar bent over and picked the book up from the floor. Archie hardly recognized it, forgetting what it had sparked, and why.

“It’s a book of poetry,” Max said, flipping through the pages.

Idly rolling her cigarette between forefinger and thumb, Archie sat back further in the pillows of her bed. “Yeah? I didn’t put much stock in its innards, to be honest. I know you like real books, so I got it.”

“_'Quotes on the Equation and Poems to Plan Your Life By’_. Very popular among the layman.” Max smirked. “I have three copies on my shelf already.”

Archie shrugged indifferently. “Well, it’s too late for a refund.”

He looked pretty in being so thankful. Max’s eyes danced with the light in them—waltzing, or foxtrotting—something fancy—but whichever it were, it’s like he was romanced by that glow. It made him seem happy.

“I appreciate the gesture.” The vicar placed it back on the desk. “Thank you.”

Archie took a drag on her cigarette. “Not taking it with?”

“Of course not.” Pulling at the edges of his sleeves, making sure his outfit was in order, Max looked at her. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

Sitting up straighter, Archie shivered.

“I can accept that life on Earth may have been less complicated, Captain Quaice, but you are in Halcyon now. Unfortunately for you, violence… is the way of things here, given certain circumstances.” The vicar sighed. “It is not only my life you endangered, but Miss Holcomb’s. That I cannot forgive. And the next time we’re in a firefight—_well_. I’m not sure I’ll trust you to have my back.”

Something about ‘standing up for her nonviolent ideals’ darted through her head. Forgiveness of strangers; an understanding for those degraded to a life of physical and emotional starvation where they lived by violence; by the gun; by hatred. There was a memory in Archie’s mind of arguing that she would not fight these people, for they deserved their struggle. Dealing them a bloody hand wasn’t fair, and tolerance, or avoidance, was always an option. Let these bandits—these marauders—have their chance. You only ever got one. 

Then she thought of the bruising—_his _ bruising—which was discoloring half his breast.

“I’ll try harder, vicar,” Archie swore in a trembling voice.

Max looked at her long and hard. “We’ll see.”


End file.
